


Once more

by Voidance



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Pre Reichenbach, Romance, Timey-Wimey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-29
Updated: 2012-11-29
Packaged: 2017-11-19 19:41:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voidance/pseuds/Voidance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is never easy to change fate, but he tries to do it anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once more

_It was a scar on the back of her hand, shaped like the number fifteen._

_John remembered tracing his tiny fingers curiously around the edge, grimacing and complaining because it felt so rough and old and_ good god ugly _underneath his skin. He remembered her laughter, bright and clear like breaking sunlight on a beautiful summer day, and the aching warmth of her heartbeats as she pulled him into a tight hug._

_“It’s an important scar.” his mother murmured, ruffling his golden locks. “It gives me another chance.”_

_She passed away at thirty-five in a car accident._

_When John took her cold hand into his and allowed the tears to finally fall, he noticed that the number read zero._

 

\-----

 

John had never really understood his mother’s words, not until he basked in the rusty air and metallic sand of Afghanistan, where he saw his comrades tumble and fall. Where the small but hopeful smiles before a battle turned into desperate clutches on his wrist, into the choking of _please John, I don’t want to die_ ,dimming and vanishing along with their impossible dreams of returning home.

Sometimes John wished he could forget. But as always, fate was a wicked woman, so all the faces and all the promises and those worn-out photos of someone’s five-year-old son crawled into his veins and haunted him at night. He had gotten used to waking up drenched with sweats, heart pounding inside his ribcage and a soundless scream muffled into his pillow.    

“It’s not your fault, mate.” Bill Murray said as he reached for John’s shaking hands, trying to comfort him even as the final thread of life slowly drained out from those warm brown eyes. “So don’t blame yourself. It’ll be okay.”

“It will.” John agreed, even though he knew it wouldn’t.

As he held Bill’s still warm body in his arms and fought back the urge to cry, John Watson prayed for the very first time.

 _Please God_ , he whispered, _give me a second chance._

 

\-----

_“I was supposed to take the car that day.” His father hiccupped, sneering into the gap between his seventh and eighth bottles. “And she knew. I don’t know how, but she knew from the very start.”_

_The drunken man pulled John close. Their foreheads touched._

_“Listen up, son.” His father laughed a little like weeping. “I killed your mother.”_

 

\-----

 

“You took that bullet for me.” Bill said on the day John left the army, both gratefully and regretfully.

“You took it out and saved my life.” John patted him on the back, tilting his head to the side with an earnest smile. “So I guess we’re even.”

John Watson returned to London with a wound on his shoulder and a psychosomatic limp.

Burned to the back of his hand, rough and new and _good god ugly_ , was a scar that read fifty-eight.

 

\-----

 

Three months later, he met Sherlock Holmes.

 

\-----

 

_“Fantastic.” John complemented. In the back of his mind, he was vaguely aware that there was a dead woman lying on the floor and a serial killer still wrecking havocs out there, neither of which was actually very fantastic._

_But it was fascinating really, how Sherlock could_ see _so much about someone through just a few details that could easily have been lost to normal eyes. How the man could make adrenaline rush through John’s brain again, and now he didn’t feel bored anymore, and all of that was simply brilliant._

_So John voiced his thoughts out loud, and was pleased when he saw that Sherlock enjoyed it._

_(“You’re weird.” Sherlock would tell him, way later, when they had finished their dim sum at three in the morning._

_“Aren’t you glad?” John would reply while taking another sip of his tea, and giggle a little as Sherlock hid a small smirk behind the rim of his own cup.)_

 

\-----

 

_“What’s Moriarty?”_

_“Absolutely no idea.”_

 

\-----

 

It took John a while to realize that his knees had given up under his weight.

His left hand was shaking, too, but John could hardly feel it anyway as he kept his gaze fixed on his friend’s unmoving figure, wondering if he was in a poor-taste nightmare that his brain had somehow made up. _This is what people do, isn’t it, leaving a note?_ He could still hear Sherlock’s voice, loud and clear in his head, and John suddenly felt the impulse to laugh because everything was just too _wrong_ and _ridiculous_ to be true.

“The joke went a bit too far this time, don’t you think?” he said instead, “Wake up, you bloody wanker.”  

Sherlock didn’t answer, and this too, was wrong and wrong and wrong and wrong.

Around him, the crowd was growing a bit hysterical, so John reached out a hand and squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder assuredly because he knew his flat mate hated noises.

“It’s okay.” he whispered, his voice surprisingly calm. “I’ll fix it. You’re going to be okay.”

 

\-----

 

_He found his mother’s diary stuffed on the bottom of his toy box five months after her death, when his father finally decided to move since the memories of her in the old house was becoming too much to bear. Her hand-writing was messy and some places were almost illegible. She had never been really good at keeping diaries._

_There were only two rules, she wrote._

  1. _Those unable to see the number cannot know of its existence. Breaking this rule results in instant death._
  2. _Each ‘turn’ depletes your life by two years. Once your number runs out, there is no going back._



 

\-----

 

John informed Mycroft, who took out the snipers and arranged Moriarty’s arrest just in time. Sherlock looked puzzled, and perhaps a tad irritated when John steadily took a step forwards and punched him in the face. Lestrade politely redirected his gaze to the nearest mold on the wall, while Mycroft suddenly seemed to have discovered a whole new interest in his old umbrella. 

“How did you know?” The consulting detective asked as if John hadn’t just greeted him with a fist, his eyebrows curiously creasing in the middle.

“Lucky guess.” John responded, and pulled him into an embrace.

As Sherlock awkwardly returned the gesture, John closed his eyes and ignored the burning sensation on the back of his hand, where the scar started to morph into a new shape.

It read fifty-six.

 

\-----

 

The second time it happened, John shouted Sherlock’s name as the detective disappeared into the vicious water of the Reichenbach Falls. They brought him two bodies afterwards, of Sherlock and of Moriarty, and John stoically held Mrs. Hudson’s trembling figure in his arms before he hit the reset button.

“You are a reckless git.” He breathed out between his gritted teeth, pulling a drenched Sherlock up to safety before whacking his flat mate on the head. Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but the taller man immediately swallowed his objections when John threw him an icy glare.

 _Fifty-two,_ he thought to himself. _Still good._

\-----

He had thought that it would all end the moment he saw Moriarty’s corpse, yet the third time came with a man named Sebastian Moran. All John could remember were a gun shot and Sherlock crumbling down right before his eyes, and then everything went black.

 

\-----

 

He woke up in the hospital with tubes piercing his body and a throbbing pain on his left shoulder. The doctor informed him that the bullet had opened his old wound just to barely miss his heart, and that it was almost a miracle that he survived that sort of injuries twice. 

“Stop being suicidal.” John told Sherlock as soon as the detective burst into his room, looking even skinnier and more anemic than usual, with bags under his eyes that could only mean several nights without decent sleep.

“Says the idiot who risked his life for nothing.” Sherlock mumbled. But as the taller man hesitantly took John’s hand into his, John could feel that Sherlock was shaking.   

“It’ll be fine. I won’t die that easily.” he reassured.

_Fifty._

 

\-----

 

When he lost Sherlock for the fourth time, John wanted to scream.

“How many times?” He asked, angry and desperate and bitter, because now he hated being useless and hated himself for being useless. “How many times do you want me to do this?”

His question bounced off the wall, breaking and dissolving into the emptiness of their shared flat. For a long time John simply sat in the darkness and waited, and when he finally understood that Sherlock wasn’t there to mock him anymore, John buried his face into his palms and sighed.

He tried again.

 

\-----

 

“You look tired.”  Sherlock said.

“Good deduction, yeah.” John nodded in agreement. “Running all over London at 2 am tends to do that to people.”

“No, you look _tired._ ” The detective stubbornly repeated. His handsome features melted into his usual frown when John just couldn’t _get_ the obvious. “Is there a problem?”

“For God’s sake, Sherlock, don’t be para-“

In a heartbeat, Sherlock towered over him and John blinked, suddenly feeling a bit too small as he was trapped between his flat mate and the sofa. _Need to talk about personal space_ , John briefly noted to himself. His breath hitched in his throat when Sherlock’s beautiful eyes bored into him, as if trying to reach into every nook and cranny of John’s brain.

“John, _is there a problem_?”

John swallowed. Sherlock could be really dangerous when he paid attention.

“No.” he replied anyway, not tearing his gaze away from the taller man.

“If there was, you’d be able to deduce it.”

 

\-----

 

It happened for the fifth time. And the sixth. And the seventh.

John would somehow always missed by the slightest chance, and Sherlock would somehow always slip away from his grasp. He had thought, had _wished_ , that the pain and hollowness would dull eventually, but it only frightened him more and more each time he saw the light fading from those blue irises.

“I’m sorry.” John choked out as he rested his head against Sherlock’s corpse, too exhausted to be angry, too guilty to care. “I’m so sorry.”

He wanted to give up. But as always, he knew he wouldn’t. Not now.

He tried again.

 

\-----

 

He made a feeble attempt to struggle when Sherlock pushed him down onto his bed and tucked a blanket around him, huffing out something that sounded like a hybrid of a curse and a whimper. His head was burning and his muscles hurt, but John was still sober enough to look up at his flat mate in quiet fury.

“Let me _go_ , Sherlock.”

“No.” The detective snarled back. “You’re running a fever. Stay here and rest until I get back.”

The thought of leaving Sherlock alone terrified him. John shook his head and winced when his headache worsened. “No, I’m good. Let me go with you.”

“John.” It was the exasperated tone now, but John would know when Sherlock was truly angry at him. “You’ll only slow me down with your current conditions. The last thing I need is having you collapse in an alleyway in the middle of nowhere.” 

“Then stay until I get better. The evidence won’t run away.”

 _Don’t go where I can’t follow._  

“Don’t go. _Please._ ” The last word came out almost like a pathetic sob, but John didn’t care. He was feeling like his five-year-old self again, scared and lonely and lost, so he tightened his grip on the sleeve of Sherlock’s coat and silently begged the man to _understand_.

There was a moment of silence before Sherlock’s eyes softened. “Fine, I suppose I can wait. It’s not like the culprit can escape any time soon.”

“Promise?” Sherlock threw him a filthy glare, then nodded reluctantly. John beamed.

He quickly fell into a deep slumber after that, where he dreamed of strong arms wrapping around him, keeping him safe.

 

\-----

 

_There were days when John would spend hours staring at his revolvers and think of a different ending. It would be much simpler, he supposed, and maybe a little less painful. A bullet through his temple, and then they would both be free from this torturous game of fate._

_The idea was far too tempting, so John locked the gun away and moved on._

_Next time, he promised himself, next time it’ll work._

\-----

 

He tried again.

And again.

And again.

 

\-----

 

John found her when half of his time was already gone. She was a timid yet lovely woman, with reddish-brown hair and gentle chocolate eyes that oddly reminded him of Bill.

“You’re a Traveller.” was the first thing she said, and his hand paused in the middle of picking up her scattering paper on the floor. She laughed nervously. “Oh, I’m sorry. That’s how my dad used to call people with numbers. I’m just surprised to find you here. You’re like him, you know. He’s dead. Oh God, sorry, that’s not what I meant.”

A deep shade of pink crept up to the tip of her ears. She looked torn between bursting into tears and hyperventilating, so John cut her off before she broke into another frantic stammer.

“Have we met before?” He smiled.

She was still blushing, but she seemed to calm down at that. “We haven’t talked actually, but I’ve seen you and your… partner a few times at Bart’s. My name’s Molly. Molly Hooper.”

 

\-----

 

“Hang on, so you don’t actually have a number.”

Molly shook her head behind her cappuccino.

“No, but I can see them. Don’t worry, I’m allowed to know how they work.” She giggled when she saw the wary expression on his face. “Maybe I didn’t have the full gene. But then again, those things aren’t innate either. My dad didn’t have a number until he was forty. Perhaps there’s a trigger?”

John lowered his gaze to the ground. He thought of Afghanistan.

“Regret.” He spoke up after a while. “And a very strong will, I suppose.”

 

\-----

 

“Is she your new girlfriend?”

“Who?” John frowned, turning away from the newspaper in his hand. He darted his eyes across the table just to see Sherlock busy working on his microscope as usual.

“Don’t be dull, John.” The detective replied, as if it was any sort of answer at all.

“For once, I’m completely clueless.”

John folded his arms on his chest and scowled, because it was the truth. Between trying to keep his flat mate alive and chasing criminals across London, the sheer idea of attempting a relationship with anyone was enough to make him scoff. He hadn’t even managed a proper conversation with any woman who didn’t work in the police force for the last two months, aside from-

 _Oh._ “You mean Molly.”

“Her name’s irrelevant.”

“Molly’s just a friend, Sherlock.” His flat mate snorted at that, and John cocked an eyebrow. “Oh come on, you can bloody _deduce_ that she isn’t my girlfriend.”

“You always seem happier when you talk to her. You don’t laugh like that anymore unless she’s around.”

There was something in Sherlock’s tone that was different from his normally monotonous analyses. John narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out what had gone amiss before something clicked in his head.

“Oh God, is that what this is about?” He snickered as he made his way towards the taller man, loudly enough to distract Sherlock from whatever experiment he was conducting. “You’re sulking because you think I don’t want to hang out with you anymore, aren’t you? You idiot.”

“I don’t sulk.” Sherlock snapped back indignantly. “And that’s a perfectly logical conclusion.”

“Perfectly logic- Sherlock, I _demanded_ to tag along with you in _every bloody case._ ” John sighed, bending down a little to lock eyes with his best friend. “How did you even get that idea?”

“I don’t know.”

For a brief moment, John was taken aback by the child-like honesty in the detective’s response. His heart skipped a beat when long fingers reached up to cup his cheek, drawing his face a bit closer.  

“I hate it,” Sherlock said quietly, “when I don’t know what’s hurting you.”

 

\-----

 

_“Why do you have go so far just to play hero?” Molly’s lips pressed into a thin line as she saw that his number had gone down again. “At this rate, you’ll die before he does.”_

_John shrugged. “It’s easier that way. For me, I mean.”_

_Her eyes widened briefly at his answer._

_“I’m not trying to play hero or anything like that. It’s just less painful if I’m the first one to go. In the end…”_

_He gave her a sad smile._

_“…In the end, I guess I’m just bloody selfish.”_

\-----

 

It was a cold December morning when he received the call.

John pulled his phone out of his pocket and frowned at the “Unknown ID” massage that was flaring up on the screen. _Probably Mycroft_ , he thought, letting out a heavy sigh before pressing the device against his ears.

“Hello?”

_“Miss me, Johnny boy?”_

His blood ran cold.

 

\-----

 

It didn’t come as much of a surprise when John opened his eyes and didn’t recognize where he was. An old warehouse probably, judging by the uncomfortable amount of dirt and silhouettes of scattering piles of boxes under the dim light. The sun had already disappeared from the horizon, though he wasn’t sure when, so he had been out cold for at least five or six hours.

John slowly gathered himself up, grimacing when his skull objected violently to the action. _A blow to the head, then. Fantastic._

“It’s been a long time, isn’t it Johnny boy? Glad to see you again.”

He didn’t even need to look up to know whom that sing-song voice belonged to.

“There’s always the option of, you know, dinner.” John grumbled, jiggling his left wrist slightly. He had never been quite fond of being handcuffed to a pole. “Comparing to bombs and concussions, I don’t think I’ll past up that new Thai restaurant on Baker Street.”

Moriarty’s face stretched into a pleasant grin. “Still playing the little soldier game, I see. It’s almost endearing.”

“You are supposed to be dead.”  John gritted his teeth, but he kept his composure when a cold gun was pressed against his temple.

“Were.” The criminal mastermind idly corrected, the eerie smile never left his lips as his fingers started to play with John’s hair. “I got a little gift, which I assumed was from you, so I thought I’d say thanks.”

“A… gift?”

John’s heart sank.

 _No. No, it couldn’t be. Anything but_ that _._

“You… have a number.” he finally uttered, desperately wishing that it wasn’t true and that he was just in another sinister nightmare.

“There we go. I was starting to think that I need to spell it out for you.”

Moriarty flicked his wrist, and sure enough, there was a red scar that read twenty-four embroidered into his pale skin.

“Brilliant, isn’t it?” The dark-haired man chuckled. “When I saw you save Sherlock at the fall, I just prayed reeeeeally hard for a second chance to kill you both. And here we are.”

“I saw your corpse.”

“Oh yes, the corpse. Did you like it, by the way? Sure made Sebby cry a little, he’s always been such an adorable puppy.” A whistle. “But really, John, I’m disappointed that you haven’t figured it out by now. All I had to do was rerun every single event that day, except for a little more preparation so I wouldn’t _really die_. If you’d paid more attention to your number, you’d have noticed that you’d actually saved your beloved Sherlock twice at Reichenbach, you just don’t remember any of it! But ah, I guess that’s expected from a mere guard dog.”

Moriarty paused just to give him a pet on the head, and John had to try his best to refrain himself from punching the other man.

“Didn’t take long to find out that you have the same power, either, because you were normally too much of an idiot to interrupt my plans.” Moriarty cringed his nose in disgust, but his mock-sweetened smile quickly returned to the corner of his mouth. “So I decided to play a little game with you instead, and make sure that you’ll _remember_. It’s not like I always need to manipulate time to kill Sherlock, really, but it helped.”      

“So how does it feel, Johnny boy?” The criminal mastermind lowered his voice as he leaned closer to John, a maniacal glint flashed across his black orbs. “To save a person who’d murdered your little boyfriend repeatedly?” 

Moriarty quickly jumped back when John flung forwards in an attempt to rip the man’s face out with his teeth.

“So what the _fuck_ do you want by bringing me here?” John growled. He could feel his blood boil just at the sight of the black-haired man, and God help him, he would strangle the bastard with his bare hand if he could only free himself. “Why do you choose to reveal yourself now when my time’s almost up? You could have just waited it out if you simply wanted me to die.”

“I could, but where’s the fun in that? You’d die without knowing what I have done to you, and honestly, it’s heartbreaking to see all the credits go to my subordinates.” Grin, grin. “And besides, I want to play another game. You. Me. Us.”

John narrowed his eyes. “Another game?”

“Why, yes. Consider yourself lucky, since you’re now daddy’s new favourite child! Let’s see, you have…” Moriarty glanced at John’s hand. “…four years left. So instead of killing you right here, I will give you a chance to use them, now that you’ve been given a head up about me. I want to see what you’ll do to save your Sherlock Holmes.” 

“And what exactly will you gain from this? I could just use that chance to fucking kill you.”

The friendly smile disappeared from Moriarty’s face. The criminal mastermind cocked his head to the side, amusement evident in his eyes.

“Confident, aren’t we? Don’t forget that you’re all alone in this game. There’s no one you can talk to about your little scar. You can’t come crying to your dear Sherlock, who put too much trust in science to believe in such nonsense as time manipulation. You have _nothing_ to go against me.” Moriarty said, his voice smooth and silky. “I, on the other hand, should have died a long time ago. If a bug like you can struggle hard enough to create a miracle, then it’ll just be another thrilling death.” 

“So, Johnny boy, be interesting.” He breathed out. “This time, kill me properly.”

 

\-----

 

_We are out of milk. – SH._

_Need your assistance. Come at once. - SH_

_Sofa is on fire. – SH_

_When will you be home? – SH._

_John, where are you? – SH._

**2:30 am Missed call: Sherlock.**

_Be home in a mo. Sry. – JW._

 

\-----

 

_When John thought about it, the solution had always been there, scritch-scratching at the other side of his closed door, nibbling at the tips of his fingers. Nevertheless, he was contented with playing the role of an ignorant fool, selfishly turning a blind eye just so he could lock it under layers after layers of his Pandora’s Box._

_Because he knew very well that it would break him, in more way than one._

 

\-----

 

“Where have you been? I needed you for an experiment and you didn’t even answer your phon- Is that bandages on your head?”

It was a bit amusing to see Sherlock fuss over him, John thought, especially when the man somehow managed to express his concerns with the most nonchalant attitude possible. Nevertheless, John could read the fear and worries, and perhaps a tad of childish anger swirling inside Sherlock’s azure irises as the taller man leaned down to examine John’s injuries.

 _God help me,_ a part of him laughed bitterly, _I’ll miss this mad idiot._     

“Got into a fight with some drunkards.” He threw out a half-hearted explanation, knowing that Sherlock wouldn’t buy it anyway. “But look, I got milk.”

“Are you sure they’re just normal drunks? What do they look like? Because the angle and the forced applied to-“

John kissed him.

Their lips brushed for only a brief moment before John pulled away, raising his eyebrow at his flatmate. Sherlock only gave him a blank look, his lips parting slightly and it seemed like the taller man suddenly didn’t know what to do with his own body.

“What, no reaction? Oh well.” John smirked, glancing at his watch. “Guess that means I’m going to slee- _mmmph._ ”

He chuckled against Sherlock’s soft lips as the detective pushed him against the wall.    

“Is this what you really want?” The dark-haired man asked, in such a vulnerable voice ( _Do you really want me? Me?)_ that John briefly wanted to punch him because it was honestly such a sly move. As if _anyone_ could say no when Sherlock said it like that.   

“I love you.” John murmured, moaning softly before letting Sherlock’s warmth overwhelm his senses.

 

\-----

 

“Bastard, falling asleep as soon as you’ve got your ways.” John let out a huff as his fingers nudged against Sherlock’s cheek, carefully enough not to wake the other man. ”There’s something called cuddling, you know.”

A soft smile dawned on his lips when the detective subconsciously leaned into the touch while mumbling something incoherent. John realized, with a bit of regret, that he really liked watching Sherlock sleep.

“You’re the most brilliant person I’ve ever met,” His voice faltered, but he continued anyway, “and I love you. So next time, when you wake up…”

He pressed a kiss on Sherlock’s forehead.

“…be happy without me, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

\-----

 

_Molly, being the kind and gentle girl that she was, had cried for him because she knew he couldn’t._

_“What about Sherlock?” she questioned._

_“What_ about _Sherlock?”_

_“It’ll destroy him.” she said, “when you’re gone.”_

_“He’ll be fine. Next time it’ll work.” John took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. “Next time, I won’t meet him.”_

\-----

 

For an infinitesimal fraction of a second, Molly Hooper really, truly wanted to find the nearest closet and hide in it for the rest of her life. It was her first day working at Bart’s, and _of course_ she had to go and bump into somebody, spilling her coffee all over his jacket for extra flavour.

“I’m sorry, sir, I’ll pay for the jacket. Please let me pay for the jacket.” She stuttered as she helped him up, her stomach sinking down a few more inches when she spotted a cane lying next to his thigh. “I didn’t mean it, really, I-”

“It’s okay. I’m fine, honestly.” The stranger cut her off, and Molly stopped in the middle of her nervous breakdown to take a proper look at him. He was a fairly nice bloke: blond hair, small but firm stature and a bright smile that suited his eyes.

A small gasp escaped her lips when she glanced at his hand out of habit.

“You’re a Traveller.” She blurted out before she could help it. “Oh, I’m sorry. That’s how my dad used to call people with numbers. I’m just surprised to find you here. You’re like him, you know. He’s dead. Oh God, sorry, that’s not what I meant.”

She blinked in confusion when he burst into laughter.

“You haven’t changed at all.” He told her when he finally regained his composure, a fond smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

”We… met before?” Molly didn’t have any memory about him, but she knew that it was possible, if the number on the back of his hand was anything to go by.

She also knew that he didn’t have much longer.

The stranger didn’t answer her directly. Instead, he leaned forward and whispered something into her ears that made her eyes go wide.

That was a secret that only she would know.

“How can I help you?” She finally asked. There was still a hint of hesitance in her voice, but her instincts told her that she could trust him.

“I need you to meet someone.” was the reply. “His name is Sherlock Holmes.”

 

\-----

_He’s alive. – MH_

He tore his gaze away from the headline announcing the death of a fake consulting detective, quirking his lips slightly and texted back.

_Thank you. You’re a miracle. – JW_

 


End file.
